There are bands that play music, and bands that build worlds. Vanderlust belongs to the latter—not because their compositions are excessively technical, but because they are conscious. From the beginning, this project carried the ambition of telling stories larger than metal itself. Their 2019 debut felt like the first sketch of a cosmic map: full of promises, directions and questions. But “The Human Farm” reveals where that map was leading—a place no one truly wished to see.
Here, humanity is reduced to livestock, and emotions become fuel. The alien race known as the Coelacanths has no interest in our technology or culture. What they need is our fear, our anger, our hope. These emotions power their civilization. And it is precisely these emotions that power Vanderlust’s music.
The lineup—Riccardo Morello, whose voice can be narration, lament and fury; Francesco “Franz” Romeggini, a guitarist whose imagination stretches wider than the space between stars; Giacomo “Giachi” Mezzetti, a drummer measuring the time left until the end of the world; and David Cantina, who joined in 2025 and immediately anchored the sound with new weight—forms an organism that is both mechanical and alive. Hovering above it are two additional forces: the growls and lyric choirs of Martina Barreca, adding an inhuman depth to the album, and the keyboards of Francesco Londino, appearing in selected tracks like flashes of alien technology.
The album opens with “Humanity 2.0 – The Human Farm,” a gateway into a world where humans are born as resources. Orchestral layers float above heavy guitars, and the rhythm pulses like the heartbeat of a creature taking its first breath. Morello sings like a narrator standing above the story yet unable to alter its course. “Golden Shackles” accelerates, its riffs sharp as glass, its chorus gleaming like gilded chains—beautiful, seductive, treacherous. Romeggini delivers one of his finest solos here: bright, triumphant, yet speaking of defeat.
“The Turning Point” is where tension begins to coil. The riffs are short and jagged, as if someone were trying to cut through invisible restraints. Mezzetti plays like a clockmaker of chaos, measuring the seconds before the inevitable break. “Connection Failed” is the emotional core of the album’s first half. Morello sings with clarity and breadth, and then—like an answer from the abyss—Barreca’s growl emerges, cold, inhuman, merciless. It is a dialogue between captive and system, a moment when the machine whispers: “Your feelings are an error. We will correct you.”
“Viral Escape” is the sound of running that ends in a dead end. Guitars slash like blades, and Morello reaches registers that feel like desperation turned into sound. “…Find Them!” is a short interlude, but a crucial one—the voice of the system, a command, a hunt. “Battlefield” is the album’s most epic moment. The chorus is vast, almost cinematic, and Cantina’s bass drives the track like the pulse of an army marching through emptiness. It is a song about a battle that cannot be won, yet must be fought.
“From the Cave – Fuga” is Romeggini’s instrumental showcase: fast, technical, full of shred flourishes. A musical visualization of fleeing through a labyrinth—beautiful, chaotic, breathless. “Drive” is the album’s most human moment: warm, melancholic, full of longing. A reminder that even in captivity, humans dream. “Reborn…Again” brings a fragile glimmer of hope. Londino’s piano opens a space where one can finally breathe. It is rebirth—not triumphant, but quiet, delicate, real.
The album closes with “Humanity 3.0 – The New Canaan,” a finale that feels like awakening. Dreamlike at first, then monumental. Is it freedom? Or merely a new version of captivity? Vanderlust refuses to answer. They leave us standing at the threshold of a world where everything is possible—and everything is suspect.
“The Human Farm” does not try to be revolutionary. It tries to be true. It is a story about the human condition—about how deeply emotional we are, and how easily those emotions can be harvested. It is metal that does not flaunt its technique, though it is full of it. Metal that does not pretend to be philosophy, though it speaks of fundamental things. Metal that never screams without purpose—every scream has its place.
This is an album for listeners unafraid to look into the mirror—even if the reflection is no longer human. Because “The Human Farm” is not just music. It is an inventory of the soul. A report from a place where humans become resources. A reminder that even in the darkest captivity, there is a spark that cannot be extinguished. If you have the courage to enter this farm—the door is open. But remember: not everyone who enters comes out the same.
